


open hand or closed fist would be fine

by likebrightness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likebrightness/pseuds/likebrightness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is harder to find her than Lexa expects, though she does find her. It is not strange for someone in Polis to not speak Trigedasleng. She does not stand out as much as she might.</p>
            </blockquote>





	open hand or closed fist would be fine

**Author's Note:**

> You should go read all the other fics in this challenge, too! 
> 
> Cedrik is borrowed, with permission, from socallmedaisy's fic [take this boat and point it home [we've still got time]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3558017/chapters/7835810).
> 
> [help out](http://patreon.com/likebrightness).

Lexa hears of Clarke walking away, leaving Camp Jaha and her people behind. Lexa hears of a stowaway who slips past guards into Polis. Lexa hears of a blonde woman, looking for a way to change her hair color.

Lexa only hears of these things because she is listening. There are plenty of stowaways, plenty of tricksters and thieves who get into Polis no matter how they try to prevent them. They are not important enough for Lexa to bother, usually. Nor is the business of beauticians.

It is harder to find her than Lexa expects, though she does find her. It is not strange for someone in Polis to not speak Trigedasleng. She does not stand out as much as she might.

Lexa does not know how to approach her. She is unknown, here. Sneaked in through the west gate and the beautician she went to was from the south, and now she’s in the northern neighborhoods.

It looks like she has been sleeping on the streets. Lexa would like to offer her comfort, but knows better than to think she would take it. She has been selling newspapers, a perfect job for someone who does not want to be noticed. People buy their paper and do not look at her twice. Lexa knows this, because Lexa watches. Always from afar, with her hair twisted into something unusual and sleeves over her identifying tattoos. She can often slip through the city unnoticed, no one but Gustus’s second—she has forgotten his name and he does not speak unless spoken to, so he has not reminded her—aware of her presence. 

She watches Clarke, red hair and stronger Trigedasleng every day. She watches other people overlook her, watches a few notice her and flirt, of all things. She watches Clarke only smile at them until they buy a paper. She cannot watch daily—she has duties, even in times of peace. She watches when she can, and Gustus’s second says nothing, will never say anything, Lexa knows, because Gustus trained him well.

She is watching her one morning, and her feet start moving before she has decided what she’s going to do.

“I would like to buy a paper,” she says, in English, to Clarke’s back.

Clarke stiffens, and turns around.

Lexa does not know what she is doing. Gustus’s second is close behind her, and Clarke is right in front of her, close enough to touch, if she reached out. Lexa does not want to bring attention to herself, to Clarke. She does not want to ruin Clarke’s disguise, her carefully made hiding place.

“Please,” Lexa says. “And perhaps a conversation.”

“Not here,” Clarke says through a clenched tooth smile.

-

Clarke leads Lexa away. Lexa cannot believe the way Clarke moves through the streets. Polis is Lexa’s city, and Clarke walks like she knows it, like she owns it. Lexa follows her to the waterside. Gustus’s second follows, and when they stop, he stands a respectable distance away. Lexa tells him to watch elsewhere, protect her from other threats, ignore Clarke. She can handle whatever Clarke wants to do to her. She deserves whatever Clarke wants to do to her.

Clarke looks like a grounder. She is dressed in clothes of the floukru, and for a moment, Lexa has a flash of Costia so strong she almost stumbles. Clarke doesn’t look like Costia, except the clothes and the fire in her eyes, but here by the water—Lexa swallows down the memory.

Lexa waits. She wants to let Clarke speak first. She wants to let Clarke control the situation. She does not want to drive her further away. But Clarke just stares out at the water. Lexa clears her throat.

“Clarke—”

Clarke whips her head around. “ _No_ ,” she says, fierce. “I am not Clarke. I am not skaikru. Not here.”

Lexa nods. “Who are you?”

“Kennedy.”

“Kennedy,” Lexa tries. It feels foreign in her mouth. She thinks of all the ways she has imagined saying Clarke’s name again, after the mountain. It was never like this. “You are safe here.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”

 _You_.

Lexa did not think this through. Clarke could have found her if she had wanted, and she didn’t. Lexa never should have approached her.

“We can provide you with anything you need,” Lexa says. She has to stop herself from saying her name.

“I don’t need anything.”

She needs someone who understands. Clarke was never anyone’s second. She was never trained to fight and kill. Lexa was groomed to lead, and still the weight of it sits heavy on her shoulders. The pressure brings anxiety, even to a commander with lives of experience.

“Cl—” Lexa bites the word off. “It would be my pleasure to offer you anything you desire.”

Clarke looks at her.

She is going to refuse again, Lexa thinks, or perhaps just walk away without another word. Clarke surprises her with a nod.

“I want you to teach me to fight.”

-

Lexa takes her to the theatre. In the evenings, it fills with players rehearsing their winter show, but for most of the day it is just a large empty space. Gustus’s second stands just off the stage, back against the wall, seeing as much as he can. He had made a noise of protest when Lexa said she would not be taking any other guards, but a glare silenced him. There are too many entrances for him to cover, she knows, but no one knows she is here.

Clarke surveys the space. She seems to approve, and looks at Lexa expectantly.

Lexa clears her throat, and explains. She is not a teacher, but she visits the warrior classes on occasion. The youngest class is her favorite. She offers to spar with them. The first volunteer is always too eager, too proud. Lexa drops them easily. She always lets the quietest child land a hit, teaches the class not to underestimate their opponent.

She tries to teach Clarke like she has heard the children’s instructor teach them. She talks of positioning, footing, staying on your toes. Clarke gets into position and Lexa knows—what she has to do, what the warrior instructor would do in this situation, is adjust her stance. Put her hands on Clarke and move her body into the right position.

She almost asks if she can, if Clarke will permit her to. But she is Heda, commander of the twelve clans, and Clarke asked her to teach her. She holds her breath, and puts her hands on Clarke.

Clarke’s body is unyielding. It takes a firm hand to move her feet, get her arms where they should be. Lexa can hear the click of saliva in Clarke’s throat when she swallows. Lexa lets go of her and lets out her breath.

Clarke holds her stance. “I asked you to teach me how to fight,” she says.

“That is what I am doing, Clarke.”

Clarke bristles at her name. “You are treating me like a child.”

“This is how you must learn to fight.”

“No,” Clarke says. “I have seen grounders teach fighting. I know how Indra taught Octavia.”

Lexa heard that story. Even if she hadn’t, she has seen the outcome of enough of Indra’s lessons to understand.

“Clarke.”

“You said you’d give me whatever I wanted,” Clarke says. Her voice does not tremble. “I want to be taught to fight like a grounder.”

Lexa thinks of all the other things she has said to Clarke— _we want the same things_ and _you’re safe_ and _I do trust you_. She wonders why Clarke believed her now, that she’d give her whatever she wanted. She has never lied to Clarke, Lexa realizes, just gone back on her word.

She won’t this time.

She fights her. She stays almost entirely defensive. She pulls her punches, and when she lands them, it’s only in places that will hurt less. It is not the exact opposite of her true fighting style, but it is close.

Clarke practically growls at her.

“Fight me,” she demands. “I’ve seen blood of your enemies on your face, don’t think I believe you’re trying.”

“I do not want to hurt you,” Lexa says.

Clarke sneers. “I didn’t want to take on the mountain men alone. But here we are.”

Lexa swallows. Schools her facial features.

“If I fight you at full strength, Clarke, I will win,” she says. “And you will not be overlooked. You try to move through this city unnoticed, but that will not be possible. No one will buy papers from a broken girl; you will be unable to make money.”

“That’s not your concern,” Clarke says.

Perhaps not, but Lexa is concerned nonetheless. She has been imagining what it would take to get Clarke back in her life since she turned around and walked away at the mountain. She has told herself she will give Clarke anything she desires. She has told herself she will not hurt Clarke again. She always knew they were false sentiments; she can promise nothing to either Clarke or herself. Her life belongs her people.

And were that not the case, what would she do here? Clarke says she is asking to learn to fight, but she is asking to be beaten. She must know that. Lexa can give Clarke what she wants or Lexa can not hurt Clarke, but she cannot do both.

She is silent for long enough for Clarke to sigh and roll her eyes.

“If you won’t, what about him?” Clarke turns to Gustus’s second. “Will you fight me?”

He glances at Lexa. She looks away.

“He needs your permission, _heda_ ,” Clarke’s tone is full of scorn, and Lexa thinks _Mockery is not the product of a strong mind_. Thinks Clarke is strong anyway.

“ _Nou tofon_ ,” Lexa says to Gustus’s second.

“Really?” Clarke scoffs. “How bad do you think I am at your language?”

Lexa presses her lips together. She doesn’t say anything else though, so she knows her command will be followed. She can tell he is unhappy about the situation; he is her guard and to him, he should be protecting her, not sparring. She’s surprised Gustus didn’t teach him to expect things like this. Even so, he will do as she says.

“What’s your name?” Clarke asks as Gustus’s second steps forward.

He looks to Lexa, and Clarke rolls her eyes. Lexa nods.

“Cedrik.”

“Teach me,” Clarke says, and takes her position. It is better than it was when they first started today, but it is still not fully correct, and Lexa fights the urge to close her eyes.

Cedrik removes his armor and weapons. Lexa knows Gustus would have taught him a number of ways to kill a person with his bare hands. Her stomach is queasy.

He is not hard on Clarke, but it doesn’t make much difference. He never moves in and continues an attack like he would in any other situation; when Clarke falls to the ground, he backs away instead of advancing. He avoids her face, mostly—sends shots to her stomach, kidneys, legs. Clarke manages to block only one. She is on the ground more often than not, getting up more and more slowly each time. Cedrik always waits until she is stable and ready before continuing.

Eventually Cedrik’s fist connects with Clarke’s jaw, with a sickening, _wet_ sound, blood and saliva sputtering out and onto the stage floor.

“ _Em pleni_!” Lexa shouts.

Clarke could take more, she thinks, but Lexa cannot. She swallows, and does not move to Clarke’s side.

“Are you satisfied?” she asks.

Clarke grins at her through a mouthful of blood. Lexa does not look away. “Same time tomorrow?”

“I may have business tomorrow,” Lexa says. “If you tell me where you’re staying, I can get a message to you regarding what time might be best.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Good try. I’ll be here. If you’re not,” she shrugs and turns to leave, but stops, looking back at Lexa again. “And don’t think of having Cedrik follow me. Don’t keep any tabs on me. I won’t come back if you do.”

Lexa’s palms itch. Clarke leaves, and Lexa doesn’t send Cedrik after her.

She cleans Clarke’s blood off the stage herself.

-

The next morning, Indra reports on skaikru and azgeda movements. There are no issues currently, but they keep their eyes open. They stay vigilant.

Lexa almost cuts the report off early, but she knows Indra would be suspicious.

She arrives at the theatre late, but Clarke is there anyway, sitting cross-legged on the stage.

Lexa wonders if Clarke is still in contact with a beautician, because there don’t appear to be any bruises on her face. Lexa does not consider other people with whom Clarke interacts, does not think about who she must know or what she must do to survive.

Lexa thinks instead about the plan she formulated since she last saw Clarke, a way to actually teach her instead of beating her.

“Get in position,” Lexa says, because she does not want to wait Clarke out to see who speaks first.

Clarke takes her time standing. Lexa knows she does this to bother her, and so Lexa is not bothered. She takes her own stance across from Clarke.

“Well, well, well,” Clarke says. “You’re actually going to fight me today?”

Lexa can tell she is moving a little gingerly. Cedrik went easy on her yesterday, but he still beat her, again and again. Lexa does not show her concern. 

“ _Gon ai op_.”

Clarke tries. She is better than yesterday, even if sore. She is still no match for Lexa.

But Lexa does not land a hit. She never tries to. Every time she could, she just taps Clarke instead. Two fingers, _tap tap_. On her cheek, her stomach, her lower back. It makes Clarke angrier, every time, and the angrier Clarke gets, the worse she fights. _Tap tap_. _Tap tap_. _Tap tap_.

“What the fuck?” Clarke says finally, hands dropping to her sides. “What is this?”

“I am teaching you,” Lexa says. She presses her lips together and does not smile. “The frustration of constantly losing will be worse for you than the pain, so this is how we will fight, until you learn to do better.”

Clarke smirks, and Lexa wonders if perhaps she is already beaten.

“No,” Clarke says.

Lexa sighs. “Yes, Clarke. You cannot make me harm you.”

“You’re pretty good at that all on your own,” Clarke says, then glances away. When she looks back at Lexa, her eyes glint with determination. “Teach me the way I want, or don’t speak to me.”

She hops off the stage and begins climbing the stairs. Lexa cannot believe how stubborn she is.

“Don’t come after me,” Clarke says when Lexa gets off the stage to follow her. “Don’t come near me unless you’re going to do what I want. Don’t send anyone near me. I’ll leave Polis if you do.”

“Clarke,” Lexa says. “You would not survive.”

It is almost time for snow, a burrowing chill in the night air. Lexa is already worried about Clarke within the city; she cannot think of her in the wilderness.

“Don’t come near me and I won’t have to. It’s your choice.”

She turns and climbs the rest of the stairs, disappears into the theatre lobby.

-

Lexa tells herself she does not care. She tells herself Clarke is being unreasonable. She reminds herself, over and over, that is it better to not see Clarke at all than to hurt her.

She returns to the theatre every day, knowing Clarke won’t be there but going anyway. Cedrik sighs heavily at her as they set out one day, and she snaps at him.

“ _What_?”

He takes it as an invitation to speak instead of a command to mind his own business.

“You have a routine, _heda_ ,” Cedrik says. “You have a routine with only one guard.”

They take different routes to the theatre each morning, and she is well-disguised. It is peacetime. She is not worried about routine.

“If my one guard is well-trained, he will be enough,” Lexa says. “If he is well-trained, he will keep his mouth shut.”

From then on, he does.

-

She lasts until the first snow. It comes down overnight, a silent, thick blanket. She has been angry at Clarke, but with the snow, worry claws at the back of her throat. It is not hard to die of exposure.

She almost sends Cedrik alone, but is too proud not to do it herself.

Clarke is still selling papers in the same part of town. It isn’t hard to find her this time, like maybe she didn’t want it to be. She has clothes for the weather, and Lexa tries not to wonder where she got them. She can’t be making enough selling newspapers.

Clarke sees her from across the square. Lexa’s stomach does a somersault when their eyes meet. She thinks of the fluorescent butterflies in the woods, wishes she could show Clarke the beauty of the forest after a snowfall. The wind whips against her cheeks like a slap in the face. She is wearing one of the cook’s coats so as not to stand out. It works for that, but not as a coat, cold air rushing through its seams. She tugs it tighter around herself and heads for Clarke.

“I don’t have to leave the city, do I?” Clarke asks. She has been watching Lexa approach, and Lexa has refused to look away.

“I will do as you wish,” Lexa says. “If you allow me to ensure you are provided for.”

Clarke squints at her, the afternoon sun’s reflection bright off the snow. “Haven’t you figured out that I hold all the cards here?”

Lexa swallows. She knows, of course; she had to accept the control Clarke has over her to even come here, but she’s never known when to give up a fight.

Except at the mountain, apparently.

-

The theatre is too cold to spar in. Lexa does not tell Clarke this. Clarke does not realize they aren’t going to the theatre until Lexa ducks into a back entrance to her compound. The main building of it is well-heated—fireplaces throughout, plus they have rigged pipes for boiling water to flow through the walls. It is warm enough even in the snow.

Clarke follows. Clarke doesn’t stop. Doesn’t say _take me to the theatre or I will leave Polis_. Lexa takes this as progress.

Cedrik is still behind them as Lexa leads Clarke through the halls.

“He stays next to you even here?” Clarke asks, and that answers the question Lexa had about whether Clarke knew where they were.

“He leaves when I dismiss him,” Lexa says. It’s not quite true. She dismissed him this morning, told him not to come with her to see Clarke. He followed anyway. Gustus taught him better than she’d hoped.

Lexa doesn’t take her to a regular sparring room; there is too large a chance of being seen. She takes her to her personal floor instead, to a room she uses for meditation. It is empty, walls bare. She directed a fire to be made there before she left, and it crackles in the fireplace.

“ _Gon we_ , Cedrik.”

He leaves, though she knows he will not go farther than the hallway.

“We will fight, Clarke,” Lexa says. “If that is what you want.”

Clarke squares up without responding. She looks good, better. Lexa wonders if she’s been practicing. She wonders who she may be practicing with. She gets into position herself.

Lexa goes easy on her, but easy enough that Clarke will notice. She steels her face and lands her punches. She has always loved fighting. She takes joy in the rush, in the crashing together of bodies, the violence of it. The swings and dodges and breath lost to hits in the gut. She doesn’t feel her burdens, her responsibilities, when she fights. She is focused. It calms her mind.

But not today.

Today her stomach churns. She does not focus on fighting; she focuses on _injuries_. On pain. She hits as softly as she can without Clarke claiming she is not trying. Clarke’s body gives under the pressures of her knuckles, elbows, the back of her hand. Her body gives until Lexa can feel their bones touch. She focuses on every place she knows she leaves a bruise.

Clarke does not give up. She never lands a hit on Lexa, but she keeps trying. She is bleeding—from a split lip and below her eye. Lexa says, “ _Em pleni_ ,” but Clarke says, “No,” and comes at her again.

Lexa ducks easily out of her reach and twists, her arm extending forward. Her open hand connects with Clarke’s sternum. Immediately, Lexa knows it is too hard. Clarke had shifted direction with her, was coming toward her, which she didn’t expect. It put her more in range, made Lexa’s hit land harder than she meant. Clarke’s shoulders collapse forward around where Lexa’s hand hit and the rest of her body goes backward. She lands on her back. Her head _thunks_ hard against the floor.

Lexa reaches her side before Clarke has the chance to move.

“Are you okay, Clarke?”

Clarke blinks up at her, slowly. “’M’fine.” She makes to sit up, but ends up rolling halfway onto her side and then back down. “Whoa.”

“You are not fine, Clarke,” Lexa says. “Stay on your back. You need to rest a moment.”

“I do not, Lexa. M’okay.”

It is the first time Clarke has said her name since the mountain. As though Lexa’s heart wasn’t already racing.

Clarke tries to get up again, and instead rolls over, and vomits.

Lexa has seen these symptoms. She has had these symptoms, when she was younger, after falling out of a tree and smacking her head on a branch on the way down.

“Cedrik, get Severna.” Lexa demands. She lowers her voice. “That’s our healer, Clarke. She will take care of you.”

Clarke looks at her. “That’s not your healer. Your healer is. Um. Is. I know his name.”

“Nyko is in TonDC, Clarke,” Lexa says gently. “Severna is our healer here.”

“Mmm.” Clarke swallows. “Ew, Lexa, my mouth tastes gross. Why does my mouth taste gross?”

Lexa brushes hair off of Clarke’s forehead, then freezes at her own movement. But Clarke doesn’t pull away, just blinks.

“I’ll take care of you, Clarke.”

-

Severna prescribes rest. A full day of rest, at least. She makes Clarke tea, which will lessen her pain and encourage sleep. Lexa puts Clarke in the room next to her own and worries that she’ll wake up and not follow the healer’s advice. Severna makes a pack of snow from the courtyard and puts it under Clarke’s head.

Lexa keeps watch. She sits at the bedside and paces the room and stokes the fire. She pulls the curtains over the windows, remembering how light made her head hurt for days after she fell from the tree. Cedrik knocks on the door and beckons her to the hallway, where Indra is waiting.

Lexa would relieve Cedrik of his duties if she trusted anyone else to take his position.

“Clarke?” Indra says and Lexa does not reply. Indra’s face is blank. “This is where you have been disappearing to.”

“I have not been disappearing,” Lexa says. She swallows. She does not need to defend herself. “What do you want, Indra?”

“Scouts are back. Waiting to report to you.”

Indra can take reports. If Lexa is otherwise occupied, Indra often takes reports. Indra wanted to interrupt. Lexa does not accuse her of it.

“Let’s go, then,” she says, instead.

She instructs Cedrik not to let Clarke leave if she wakes up, and follows Indra.

-

The scouts’ reports are unimportant, furthering Lexa’s belief that Indra simply wanted to interrupt. Skaikru appear well stocked for their first winter. The azgeda are advancing no farther South than usual for the time of year. The reports devolve into discussions of hypothetical winter scenarios depending on the weather. Lexa grows frustrated, though the discussions need to be had. They need to be prepared for an influx of floukru into Polis if the season is hard, need to consider how much aid they will offer skaikru.

It is past dark when Lexa can finally escape. She leaves without saying anything to Indra.

As she gets close to her hallway, Lexa hears voices. Clarke’s and Cedrik’s. She speeds up.

She finds Clarke trying to get around Cedrik, and Cedrik doing a good job of staying in front of her and ignoring her as she curses at him. She catches sight of Lexa and glares.

“Would you tell him to get out of my way?”

“No,” Lexa says. “You must stay in bed.”

Clarke fixes her with a look, eyebrows raised, and Lexa’s cheeks flush at the implication. Cedrik stands down, as Clarke is no longer actively trying to leave.

“You must rest, Clarke,” Lexa clarifies. “You have a head injury. Severna suggested at least one full day’s rest.”

“Who?”

“Severna,” Lexa says. “Our healer. She examined you this afternoon.”

Clarke takes pause at that.

“Amnesia is a common symptom, Clarke,” Lexa says. “Please, come back inside.”

She gestures to the room. Clarke goes in without even arguing.

“ _Mochof_ ,” Lexa says to Cedrik, under her breath.

He nods, and stays in the hallway as she follows Clarke, closing the door behind her.

“What happened?” Clarke asks. She sits on the edge of the bed.

“We were sparring,” Lexa says. She feels guilty. “I struck you in the chest and you fell backward. Your head hit the floor.”

Clarke nods, then winces.

“How are you feeling?” Lexa asks.

“Hungry.”

Lexa smiles. “I will have Cedrik call for dinner.”

-

She gets one large plate, rather than two, in an effort to continue to hide Clarke. Lexa knows people talk, but Indra doesn’t, and Cedrik won’t, and Severna is a grandmother, and has better things to do. Lexa trusts that Clarke’s presence remains a secret.

They eat in companionable silence, and Clarke proves her hunger by finishing well over half the plate. After, she wipes her mouth on her sleeve and sighs.

“People probably know I’m here now,” she says.

“Severna, Cedrik, and Indra, only,” Lexa says. “This room is always ready for guests. Workers are delivering firewood to Cedrik, likely believing it is for my own room. I have done my best to maintain your secrecy.”

“Thank you.” It looks like it hurts her to say.

“How are you feeling, Clarke?”

She means more than just her head. Lexa got in some gruesome hits to Clarke’s ribs, flattened her with an elbow to the back at one point. The sense memory of the way Clarke’s body feels crumbling under her hands makes her sick.

“Sore,” Clarke admits. “Everywhere.”

“I can have a bath drawn for you,” Lexa ducks her head as she says it, can’t look Clarke’s rejection in the face.

But Clarke stays quiet for so long, Lexa chances a glance at her. She is staring back.

“Okay,” she says.

Lexa swallows.

“Would my bathing room be acceptable?” she asks. “So as to keep up the ruse that you are not here.”

Clarke nods minutely.

“I will get you when it is ready.”

-

Clarke takes a long time in the bath. Lexa spends the whole time not knowing what to do, where to go, what to do with her hands. She stokes the fire, in her room and Clarke’s both, and puts out one of the torches in her room, as she always does while preparing for bed.

This feels like her second chance. She cannot change what she did at the mountain, and she would not, if she had the chance to do it again. But maybe this is Clarke understanding, forgiving her. There is a level of trust needed to use someone’s bathing room, and it was not something she expected to have with Clarke again so soon.

Lexa put warm clothes in the bathing room before getting Clarke for her bath. In any other situation, Clarke may not accept them, but they are warmer than her own, and clean. Lexa expects her to wear them.

Lexa does not expect her to open the door in a towel.

Lexa swallows. Hard. Swallows again. Does not make any words.

“Do you have another towel I could use for my hair?” Clarke asks. She is almost smiling.

Lexa’s limbs feel heavy and her body too big for the room.

“Yes, Clarke,” Lexa says. She gets another towel from her bureau. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

Lexa would like to know what Clarke thought of, all that time in the bath, to make her act like this. She wraps the towel around her head, and will not look Lexa in the face. It doesn’t seem that she is upset, though. It seems _coy_.

“The clothes didn’t look comfortable to sleep in,” Clarke says, as though that explains her current state of undress. “But I will be happy to have them in the morning.”

“You are welcome to stay here as long as you like, Clarke,” Lexa says. “You could work here, if you wanted to maintain your disguise.” Clarke rolls her eyes, but it is accompanied by a soft laugh. Lexa knows Clarke can take care of herself, knows Clarke has been taking care of herself for months now, but the thought of keeping her close is too enticing. “There is always room in the kitchens. It would be more discreet than to make you one of my personal handmaidens.”

Clarke is not laughing now. “Excuse me?” she asks, and then does not wait for Lexa to explain. “I can cook food for you since I can’t be your _personal handmaiden_?”

“I did not mean—”

Clarke disappears into the bathroom. Comes back with the clothes Lexa left out for her.

“Good night, Lexa,” she says, and leaves.

Lexa feels—she feels _young_. She was groomed to be the commander. She has past lives to call on. But she doesn’t have experience in this. With Costia it was _easy_ ; they were each other’s from the beginning. This feels childish, the way she yearns for Clarke.

She makes it to Clarke’s door, hand raised to knock, and then stops. Clarke makes her forget her place, her duties, her life. She cannot allow herself this foolishness.

She turns to Cedrik instead.

“You should sleep,” she says. “We will be fine until morning.”

Cedrik nods, but does not move, as she expected. Normally he would have a replacement so he could rest, but with Clarke around, he has been there the whole time. Lexa goes back to her room, puts out her last torch, and climbs into bed.

She does not fall asleep easily.

In fact, she does not fall asleep at all. She is still awake, hours later, when she hears Clarke shout.

She is out of bed, out of the room, at Clarke’s door, before Cedrik has made it inside. Lexa goes in first.

Clarke is in bed, thrashing, but no one else is in the room.

 _Natkripa_.

Lexa does not think. She yells Clarke’s name and vaults herself to the edge of the bed, grabs Clarke’s flailing arms.

Clarke opens her eyes to Lexa half in the bed with her, fingers wrapped around her wrists.

“It is okay, Clarke,” Lexa says, voice calm enough not to betray her pounding heart. “It was a dream. You are okay.”

Lexa can see the moment Clarke recognizes reality, but the panic does not drain from her eyes. She looks like she wishes Lexa left her to her nightmare. And then she surges forward and—

It is not like their first kiss. Their first kiss—Lexa may have been desperate, but she was gentle. This is not gentle. This is teeth biting down, tongue strong and hard. This is Clarke’s entire body, pushing up into Lexa. This is violent. This is full of contradictions: the chill of the room against the heat of Clarke’s mouth; the way Lexa’s lungs scream like she’s drowning, but it feels like the first full breath she’s taken since the mountain; how strong Clarke is, even if Lexa cups her face like she’s fragile.

When she finally pulls herself together enough to think straight, Lexa glances to the door. It is shut, and Cedrik is gone as though he never followed her in, and she should be embarrassed, but Clarke bites at her jaw and she shudders.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” Clarke says, her hands tugging at Lexa’s pants.

Lexa knows.

“Are you okay, Clarke?” she asks instead of helping Clarke undress her. She means about the nightmare, and her head, and all the other injuries Lexa inflicted on her.

Clarke might scoff, Lexa is uncertain. Clarke’s head is bowed, her focus on pushing Lexa’s pants down over her hips. Lexa does not think this is a good idea. Lexa does not want to hurt Clarke any more than she already has. And then Clarke presses her thumb against Lexa’s clit without getting her pants any farther than her thighs, and Lexa just wants _more_.

Clarke is in a sleeveless shirt and underclothes, only. Lexa leans down onto her and Clarke gasps against Lexa’s skin—in pain, rather than pleasure. Lexa pulls back.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Your ribs.”

But Clarke is tugging her back down, to the exact same position that hurt her.

“Clarke—”

Clarke kisses her. _She is so damn stubborn_ , Lexa thinks, and kisses her back. She pushes herself up enough to get her hands on Clarke’s shirt and pull it up. She doesn’t get it over Clarke’s head, because as soon as it’s past her chest, Lexa gets her mouth on her. Clarke is heartbreakingly soft. A purple bruise blooms across the ribs on the right side of Clarke’s body. Lexa avoids it, sucking gently at the skin of Clarke’s breasts. She bites a nipple, and Clarke’s thumb slips hard against her.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Clarke says, sliding a finger into her.

Lexa knows.

Clarke is sudden and demanding. She maneuvers so one of Lexa’s legs is between hers, cants her hips up. She pushes so hard, Lexa loses her balance atop her, collapses right onto Clarke’s ribs.

Clarke yelps, but holds tight to Lexa’s shoulders. She doesn’t let her pull back.

“Clarke,” Lexa says.

Clarke keeps shoving her hips into Lexa until Lexa gives up worrying about her ribs. She skims her hands down Clarke’s stomach, the muscles jumping beneath her fingers. It is so different, to have Clarke under her like this, to touch her like this. Lexa’s hands are bruised from the force with which they hit Clarke’s skin earlier in the day, but now her touch is feather light.

Clarke gets impatient, stops touching Lexa to get out of her shirt and underclothes herself. She shucks the pants the rest of the way off Lexa before sliding a hand against her again.

Lexa mimics her. She drags her fingers through the ichor between Clarke’s legs. She pushes into Clarke at the same time Clarke pushes into her. They both gasp.

Clarke leans her bruise directly into the arm that Lexa is holding herself up with. She whines when Lexa moves the arm away.

Lexa doesn’t want to hurt Clarke. Lexa wants to give Clarke what she wants.

She moves her arm closer again. Clarke presses her entire side against it, breath choking off as she does.

Lexa tries to be gentle, but Clarke is vicious. Her body jerks beneath Lexa, rough, desperate movement. Into Lexa’s fingers, pressing inside her, and into Lexa’s arm, against Clarke’s ribs.

“ _Harder_ , Lexa,” Clarke demands.

And so Lexa fucks her harder.

Clarke is doing the same, hand pumping with the speed of her hips.

“ _Fuck_ , Lexa, this feels so good.”

Lexa _knows_.

-

Lexa wakes to an empty bed. To an empty room. To Clarke gone.

She pulls her clothes back on and flings the door open and Cedrik is there, as always, standing at attention in the hallway.

“Where is Clarke?”

“I have not seen her,” he says.

“You are lying,” Lexa seethes.

She could not have left the guestroom without Cedrik seeing her. Could not have made it out of the compound unnoticed. Lexa feels her heart in her throat and swallows it down.

“You let her go.”

Cedrik’s back is straight. “I must have fallen asleep, _heda._  You were right when you told me I needed rest. I am sorry.”

She is not sure what is more unbelievable: his story that he fell asleep or the one she thinks is true, where he helped Clarke leave.

She goes into her own room. The bed is a mess, left when she raced to Clarke’s side. Cedrik was awake enough to keep her fire going, she notices.

She does not rage. She does not cry. She does not climb back into bed and sleep away the morning. She dresses in clean clothes and calls for her maidens to fix the braids in her hair. She does not think about why they have fallen out more than usual overnight.

-

And so that’s it. That was Lexa’s second chance, and now it is over, and that is it. She does not waste her days thinking about Clarke, does not return to the theatre or the square where Clarke has sold papers. Sometimes, though, she can’t stop herself at night, the way it’s become a habit to think about the mountain and about Clarke and about how things could be different.

She offers open audience to her people. She listens to complaints about snow removal from streets, about the price of lumber for home repairs people will freeze without. She listen to problems people below her would usually solve. She offers her own solutions instead.

She gets heavily involved in planning for the winter solstice night. It is a night of revelry, in Polis and elsewhere. Lexa decides there should be more bonfires than usual. Indra rolls her eyes. Lexa sits in on meetings where they discuss vendors for games and food and drink. She always is out among her people on the solstice, but she has never fully seen the preparation that goes into the celebration.

When the night comes, she enjoys it all the more knowing how many arguments were had over where to put the trapeze artists.

It is a cold night, though the bonfires certainly help. Everyone is bundled in coats and hats and scarves, the different clans obvious in their different styles. Lexa walks among them. She is offered far too much food, but always accepts. She eats a bit, declares its deliciousness, and shares with those who have none. Cedrik looks particularly jealous at a turkey leg; his eyes light up when she offers it to him after a few bites.

Many people approach her, offer their thanks, their love, their hope for a gentle rest of the winter. Cedrik stays close by her but lets people come forward. He does well for his first communal celebration, Lexa thinks.

She looks out over a square. Three sides are lined with food vendors, the fourth with all number of games. Lexa usually gets challenged to put on a display of skill at a game or two before the night is over. In the center of the square, what is normally a fountain is tonight a big burning bonfire, casting light and warmth in all directions. Lexa takes pleasure in its heat for a moment, before freezing.

Clarke is near the bonfire, talking with two others. They are laughing. She is wearing Lexa’s clothes, the clothes Lexa gave her after her bath. Lexa’s throat constricts. Cedrik notices, of course, and steps nearer to her. She considers fleeing.

Clarke looks up, then, right at her. Lexa feels Cedrik stand taller beside her. She stares back at Clarke.

Lexa watches as Clarke says something to the people she’s with. She watches Clarke head toward a food vendor, glancing back at those she’s left until they are out of sight. Lexa watches Clarke change directions, and head toward her. Lexa swallows, and does not move.

Clarke stops in front of her. They are to the side of the square, and do not garner too much attention. People look at Lexa because she is the commander, yes, but it’s well into the celebration. Her novelty has worn off.

Cedrik stands directly at Lexa’s side. He keeps his eyes on Clarke. Lexa revels in the way he makes Clarke shift, obviously uncomfortable. It is the first time he has treated her as a stranger to the commander, as another of her people seeking audience.

“Are you having fun with your friends?” Lexa is aware she sounds petty. She asks in English, which isn’t the best way to help Clarke’s cover. She doesn’t care.

Clarke takes a moment to respond. “They do not know who I am,” she says. “They do not know what I have done. They make me feel normal.”

“You are not normal, Clarke,” Lexa says. Clarke grimaces, perhaps at the statement, perhaps at Lexa’s use of her name. Lexa does not care. “You are a leader. And some day soon your people will need you, and you will return.”

“And what if—”

“You have greatness in you, Clarke,” Lexa says. “You are not normal.”

She turns away. She cannot do this.

“ _Heda_.”

Lexa hates the thrill that goes through her at Clarke using the title.

“I would like to return to my training.”

Lexa swallows. She does not give herself time to think. “Cedrik will find you tomorrow.”

She walks away.

At the moment she considers looking back at Clarke, Cedrik says, “ _Heda_ , I heard children at the archery game daring each other to challenge you.”

She turns to Cedrik. He offers her a small smile. She smiles back.

“I suppose I must go show them why I am their commander.”

His smile grows. “So you must.”

-

The next day, Cedrik brings Clarke to Lexa. They stand on opposite sides of her meditation room, where they had sparred before.

Last night, showing off for the children drained Lexa of the stress Clarke brought her. But in the daylight, Lexa is stilted and angry. Lexa feels _weak_ , and she knows why, and she still does not want to fight Clarke.

“ _Gon ai op_ ,” Clarke says, and she tries a smile.

Lexa’s stomach heaves, and she gets into position.

Clarke is better, this time. Clarke must have been practicing. Lexa thinks of the people she was with in the square, and digs an elbow into Clarke’s side. Clarke stumbles, and gasps for breath, and Lexa does not feel any better.

Lexa does not try hard. She is not afraid of Clarke threatening to leave Polis. She does not know why Clarke is here, does not know why she has allowed Clarke here. Clarke does well, mostly, but Lexa notices hesitation sometimes, notices that Clarke doesn’t always attempt to block Lexa’s attacks.

Lexa lands a punch that Clarke didn’t even try to avoid, and stops fighting.

“I will not do this if you are unwilling to learn. You are using me as a tool for a punishment you mistakenly believe you deserve.”

Clarke, a hand on her newly bruised jaw, glares at Lexa. “I do deserve it,” she snaps. “I killed all those people. This is nothing compared to what I did. And you deserve it, too. You stabbed a knife in my back when you walked away from the mountain, Lexa, you just didn’t see the blood until now,” she spits at Lexa’s feet, and it is red.

“You are a leader,” Lexa says. “You did what needed to be done. And do not think, Clarke, that I have not punished myself enough for the mountain.”

They stare at each other, breathing hard, and Lexa wonders why either of them are really here. Is it for the pain or the company or both? Clarke makes her want to hit something, but she still does not want to hit Clarke.

She takes her stance. Clarke pauses for a moment, gathers herself, before getting into position. Lexa feels a flare of pride that Clarke does not let her anger overcome her.

Clarke is patient this time, and waits for Lexa to attack first. Lexa pulls her punches and avoids Clarke’s face and is glad when Clarke dodges one of her strikes, and then Clarke’s fist lands just under Lexa’s ribs.

They both freeze. Clarke has not landed a hit before. Lexa bites back her grin, but Clarke does not, surprised and proud of herself.

Lexa gets back into position.

“Again,” she says.

 

 

 

 


End file.
